


Secrets and Skirmishes

by dreamlittleyo



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Dubious Consent, Episode Spoilers, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Secrets, Sexual Content, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:06:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that he is lonely. It's simply that he would prefer not to be alone.<br/>(Spoilers for 1.03 - "Commodities")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets and Skirmishes

For five years he has been only Athos. 

The simple drunk. The quiet curmudgeon. The Musketeer. 

He has not been the Comte de la Fère. He's had no wish to look that man in the mirror—to remember his crimes—or to return to the home haunted by a woman long dead. 

But she is _not_ dead. And Athos wonders which is the greater curse: to be haunted always by his memories of the wife he betrayed? Or perhaps worse, to see her with his own eyes; to give his life over into her hands without a fight, and yet to live. He can't decide if it was luck that spared him, or if she knows him still so well. Perhaps she understands that this is the greater torment—that death could never be punishment enough.

The past five years have been a Hell of his own making; Athos does not know how to face a future that promises only worse.

D'Artagnan, at the least, has been true to his word. He's kept to himself the secret Athos confessed in the violent light of a burning chateau. For all the young man's suffocating curiosity, he seems to possess an admirable understanding of both discretion and honor. D'Artagnan has told Aramis and Porthos nothing. Even his eyes show no sign of pity or disgust, and Athos is a weak enough man to be grateful for the charade. 

Perhaps that is why he keeps company with d'Artagnan tonight, in a mood when normally all Athos desires is the solitude to seek oblivion in his wine.

"You've been drinking a lot since we returned to Paris," d'Artagnan says, voice pitched low so that Athos can barely hear him through the noisy ruckus of the tavern. "Even for you." 

Athos does not care that d'Artagnan is right, nor does he appreciate being lectured by a farm boy. He rolls his shoulders and glares dourly, but the expression—among the most intimidating in Athos' sizable arsenal—has no apparent effect.

"Why are you still here?" Athos asks, pitching his voice low in an effort (moderately successful) to sound more irritable than glum. "It's late. You should go home."

"I would put the same suggestion to you," d'Artagnan retorts dryly.

"I have no intention of retiring. I am not yet drunk." Rather, Athos considers, he is not yet drunk _enough_. He can still think with all too much clarity, despite the blurry edges that have begun to distort the world. He is drunk, yes, but still near enough to sober that if he takes himself back to his lodgings now he will have no hope of sleep.

"Then I'll stay," d'Artagnan says.

"I prefer to drink alone." Athos pauses, notes that his assertion has not dimmed the determination on d'Artagnan's face, and sighs tiredly. "I am not a cheerful drunk, d'Artagnan. Surely you've learned this by now. I will be poor company." It's a weak argument. He has been poor company many times before, almost constantly since returning to Paris, yet d'Artagnan has been an immovable presence at his side.

He is therefore not surprised when d'Artagnan says simply, "All the same, I'll stay."

"I do not need a chaperone."

"What about a friend?"

Athos doesn't bother responding to that. He takes a long, slow drink instead, lapsing into a guarded silence and doing his best to ignore d'Artagnan's persistent presence at his elbow. D'Artagnan, for his part, refrains from unwelcome conversation. There is something intimate and companionable in the quiet that settles between them, unnoticed by the rest of the tavern's noisy populace. 

Though they remain there for another hour—longer perhaps—Athos ultimately gives up on his intention to drink himself into senseless oblivion. Even without conversation, he feels d'Artagnan's eyes on him. Watching him. Surprisingly unreadable in the moments Athos glances his way. For reasons Athos can't fathom, he wants d'Artagnan to think well of him, and so he slows his drinking, eventually tapers off entirely. He'll hate himself for it later, in the midnight emptiness of his own bed, but he gives in to unlikely discretion anyway. 

They don't pay before departing. The tavern keeper is a long acquaintance, and Athos will settle his accounts another time. Outside, the street carries a maze of unpleasant odors, but the air is cool and crisp. Athos sighs, an exhausted sound, and turns his steps towards the rue Férou.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demands dully when d'Artagnan falls into step beside him.

D'Artagnan shrugs without answering, but he continues at Athos' side. 

Athos, to his own confusion, ignores his surly pride and allows d'Artagnan to see him home. There's something reassuring in his companion's presence, and though he is not so drunk as he would like, Athos slows his pace. When d'Aartagnan casts a worried look at him and slips an arm around his waist, Athos drapes an arm across his shoulders and leans more heavily than necessary on the offered support. 

By the time they reach Athos' lodgings, he is reluctant to let go. His rooms on the second floor are nothing but dark windows and grim emptiness. Even the building's front entrance stands in uninviting shadow. There is nothing but a cold, narrow bed waiting for Athos upstairs, and he doesn't want to relinquish the distracting heat pressed along his side. 

It's not that he is lonely. It's simply that he would prefer not to be alone.

"Come on, then," d'Artagnan mutters, grabbing for the latch with his free hand. Inside, Athos holds on all the more tightly, as d'Artagnan kicks the door closed and urges him up the narrow stairs.

The landing above is wider than the entry below, a stunted hallway leading to only one door—that of Athos' rooms—with brittle walls to either side and a floor that creaks restlessly underfoot. 

"Your key?" d'Artagnan asks, and Athos draws it from his pocket in almost total darkness, the metal warm against his palm. The lock gives an irritable click, and Athos returns the key to his coat. All without speaking. He has little of worth to say. If he opens his mouth, he might ask d'Artagnan to remain, and his pride will not let him make such a mistake.

But neither is he prepared to cross alone into his own chambers. The door swings grudgingly open, permitting the faintest hint of moonlight from the windows beyond. 

As d'Artagnan moves to release him, Athos shifts his weight without conscious thought. He almost knocks the both of them down with his apparent carelessness, and the moments that follow are almost a skirmish of lost balance and flailing limbs. D'Artagnan's fist closes in the front of Athos' tunic to keep him from tumbling back towards the stairs.

It's only in the name of regaining his equilibrium that Athos presses d'Artagnan back, against the wall beside the open door. But he has no excuse at all for the fact that, once there, he makes no move to retreat. 

Here, in the shadows beside the door where the moonlight does not quite reach, Athos can see little more than the wide whites of d'Artagnan's eyes.

"Athos," d'Artagnan says. His voice is steady. Confused, but not the slightest bit anxious. 

Athos cannot fathom what possesses him to take d'Artagnan's mouth in a kiss that startles them both. 

Perhaps more startling is the fact that d'Artagnan doesn't push him away. At the first taste, Athos presses closer. He is appalled with himself, but he's also helpless to stop. D'Artagnan stands immobile, bracketed firmly in place by Athos' body, patient and unresisting but not returning the kiss. D'Artagnan's hand, still fisted in Athos' tunic, tightens its grip thoughtlessly. 

Athos at last withdraws, and it takes several heartbeats for d'Artagnan to open his eyes. When at last he does, even in the dim hallway Athos cannot miss the wild surprise, the startled apprehension visible there. The two men stare at each other, both breathing heavily. There are questions in d'Artagnan's eyes, an unmasked bafflement to which Athos has no response.

"Leave," Athos says darkly, his voice gone to gravel. "Now." 

D'Artagnan doesn't answer, but the uncomfortable silence is hardly a surprise. Athos, carefully and deliberately, takes his hands off the boy. He feels the grip in his tunic fall away, and he takes a backward step, out of d'Artagnan's personal space.

Still they stare at each other, shadows obscuring their faces, eyes all too honest. Athos feels caught out and reckless. He must retreat.

He tries. He moves for the open door with a quick, steady step, little caring that in the process he's giving away how near he truly is to sober. He will close this door, putting himself on one side, keeping d'Artagnan on the other. He will make no more foolish decisions tonight.

He doesn't make it through the door before d'Artagnan is grabbing his coat, stopping him with a determined yank. Drawing Athos back towards him with an angry grip, still not speaking a word. In the doorframe there is more light, and without the obscuring shadows Athos can see the stubborn jut of d'Artagnan's chin, the boldness and frustration in the line of his jaw. His wounded Gascon pride. Under normal circumstances, Athos would smile at that look on d'Artagnan's face, familiar as it has become in so short an acquaintance. 

But these are not normal circumstances. An instinctive anger swirls high in Athos' chest, warming him, tensing his spine. D'Artagnan, so thoughtlessly impeding his retreat, only glares darkly without giving ground.

It would be simple enough to dislodge d'Artagnan's hold and shove him away, earning enough space for Athos to close and lock the door. But d'Artagnan wears a determined expression, and the blatant challenge lodges beneath Athos' skin, making something possessive and terrifying uncurl inside him.

When Athos moves it's not to evade d'Artagnan as he should, but to drag him inside and slam the door. A brief grapple proves that, no matter how promising a recruit, d'Artagnan is not yet a match for Athos' carefully honed skills. Athos quickly bests him, knocking him off balance and backing him hard against the sturdy door. 

They fall still in unison, and Athos watches d'Artagnan's chest rise and fall in a shaky breath.

"I told you to leave," Athos says. The gravel in his voice has fallen deeper, and there's warning in the sound. 

"I didn't listen." For all the raggedness of his breathing, d'Artagnan's voice is steady. His words hang between them, heavy with meaning. Athos shakes his head, still angry, but increasingly distracted by the heat rising in his blood.

"I will give you one more chance. Do _not_ press me, d'Artagnan. Go. Now. And we will never speak of this again." 

But Athos can't bring himself to let go first, and d'Artagnan makes no move to extricate himself. Athos curses inwardly. He has never before considered taking d'Artagnan into his bed, but suddenly he's overwhelmed by a desire to have the young Gascon beneath his hands. D'Artagnan is no innocent, but surely he will balk in the moment. If Athos were a better man he would consider this, and he would walk away.

He kisses d'Artagnan again instead. A deeper kiss than the first, greedy and almost violent. But this time d'Artagnan comes alive beneath his hands. This time d'Artagnan's lips part readily at the faintest press of Athos' tongue, and he gasps a breathless sound at the knee slipping firmly between his thighs. 

Athos did not begin the evening intending a seduction, but now the idea has taken root in his mind and he doesn't hesitate. His hands are intent and sure on the already loose laces of d'Artagnan's tunic, and breaking from the kiss, he grabs the worn fabric and yanks it impatiently up and off before tossing it carelessly aside. D'Artagnan's efforts are less steady as he works at the buttons and buckles of Athos' coat and belts. There's a jarring slump and clatter, swords and leather hitting the floor in a heap, and Athos grunts an inarticulate sound, almost a growl, as he claims a third fierce kiss.

It's almost embarrassingly difficult to take his mouth and hands off d'Artagnan, but in a dry corner of his brain Athos knows they can't continue this here. He may be out of his mind, determined to a course of action that is madness itself, but he is not a brute. He won't simply take d'Artagnan against the door like this, tempting as the idea might be.

Strong instincts tell him to grab d'Artagnan by the wrist and drag him through the spartan apartments to the small corner room in which Athos sleeps. Instead, he takes a step back, holding d'Artagnan's eyes with his own meaningful stare. A pointed, wordless exchange. Then, turning abruptly on his heel, Athos makes his way to his bedroom alone.

D'Artagnan follows in his wake, booted footsteps heavy on dusty floorboards. 

Neither of them speaks. There's no need. Athos has made his intentions impossible to mistake, and there is nothing words can do now but get in the way. 

They quickly discard what's left of their clothing, kicking boots aside, dropping the rest without care. When Athos closes on d'Artagnan now, there is nothing but warm flesh to meet him. He marvels at the smooth skin, broken rarely by the rough scars that mar so much of his own body. It's the lack of scars that reminds him so starkly of d'Artagnan's youth—and would perhaps make him reconsider his course if he were a better man. 

The bed, narrow but sturdy, barely creaks when Athos presses d'Artagnan down onto his back. _Here_ is where he expects d'Artagnan will hesitate, and he is watchful of the minutest reactions, searching for the faintest hint of reticence. But d'Artagnan only arches beneath him as Athos' weight bears him down, a taunting movement that makes Athos inhale sharply through his teeth—makes it impossible to ignore the matched heat, the firm evidence of mutual arousal between them. Athos very much doubts he could speak now, even if he wanted to, but he has no call to test his theory—not when d'Artagnan fists both hands in his hair and drags him down into another messy, eager kiss. 

Athos growls, grinds down against him, all semblance of coherent thought demolished. He intended more than this when d'Artagnan followed him into this room. He intended (though he will never admit it now) to take far greater liberties than this simple, desperate rutting. But the friction between them is maddening, winding him up to a wild fever, and he is already lost. 

His fingers grasp rough bruises into d'Artagnan's hips as their bodies slip and grind together, and in his ear there is only the shocky sound of d'Artagnan gasping and groaning beneath him. Athos knows he sounds little better himself. He is close, rising closer, trembling on the edge of a familiar precipice.

Tomorrow he will remember to be appalled with himself. Tonight he needs only this.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Athos wakes to a dull headache and an empty bed.

He didn't drink enough to earn his usual hangover; he didn't even drink enough to forget, and he rolls onto his back with a groan, throwing an arm over his eyes against the sunlight glaring through his window. He's not surprised d'Artagnan is long gone, though he feels guilty for falling so soundly asleep that he didn't notice when the boy left. 

There's nothing for it. He rouses himself stiffly, and with the greatest reluctance goes through every rote step of his morning routine. 

It's Aramis who finds him first, halfway to the garrison, though Porthos joins them just as they reach the courtyard. Athos does his best not to wonder when (if) d'Artagnan will join them, and when an hour's breakfast passes with no sign, does an equally poor job ignoring the gnaw of guilt in his gut. Never mind that d'Artagnan is not yet a Musketeer and must fulfill duties to his own regiment; such details have never kept him away from Treville's courtyard before, and Athos can't credit them as the reason for his absence now.

Aramis nudges him with an elbow, face bland but worry behind his eyes. Asking what's troubling him without need for words. Athos only shrugs and continues to stare into his empty glass. 

It's far too early in the day for such a morose aspect, but he can't seem to summon any other expression in its place.

Athos has given entirely in to the certainty that d'Artagnan won't appear by the time the young Gascon enters the courtyard. Athos takes him in from beneath the brim of his hat, and finds no outward sign of trouble in d'Artagnan's countenance. His step is as lively as ever, his shoulders straight, his hands at rest as usual at his belt. 

"D'Artagnan," Porthos' voice booms brightly. "You've missed breakfast."

"Surely not." D'Artagnan drops to the bench across from Athos, but his eyes are on Porthos as he retorts, "Even you can't have finished off Serge's entire stock before eleven." 

Aramis laughs, Porthos thumps the table, and Athos straightens to (belatedly) look d'Artagnan directly in the eye. For his part, d'Artagnan's gaze shifts immediately to meet his scrutiny. There's an instant that could be awkward, a stilted silence too short for the others to take notice, and Athos braces himself for the inevitable guilt.

Then d'Artagnan arches one eyebrow—a wry, secretive, eloquent expression—and relief hits Athos instead. 

It can't be as easy as this. But d'Artagnan's attention has already shifted elsewhere—to the steaming bowl that's appeared not quite by magic before him—and never mind what can't be. It seems it is _exactly_ as easy as this.

"Eat quickly," Athos admonishes. "We have business to attend to, and you have already made us late."

D'Artagnan gives him a dry look, reaches for a spoon, and begins his breakfast without a word.


End file.
